Seidel

Seidel

like paracetamol passed its best

you’re not helping

I look to you

for a pinch of filth

and fanciful suppleness

But this day

under a cold quilt

of clouds

when conversations on the air

carry like lost children

off the street

through my window

and the wind

whips saline tears

off the ageing face

of the English Channel

you bring nothing

but confusion

and the foreshadowing

of more rotten Brighton weather  

Monet's Sea

The sea’s a Monet

today.

The slight chop

pieces away into

the idea of a

horizon;

this is where I set

my gaze,

beyond borders

or edges.

I’ve never been

to sea

but can imagine

the secret that

voyagers to this

point must hold:

that they come apart

here,

as the painter's brush

intends they should,

undress and lose shape;

run like colours

into the notion

of another’s arms,

as floor gives way

to bed,

and lips to thigh.

Then back to the

photograph

of my sandaled feet on

this pebbled beach.

I won’t set sail today.

Wait for the Wind

Wait for the wind

in an open space

look listen feel

spread your arms

splay your fingers

run run

catch it

and take off

over what you’ve

done or haven’t

over broken promises

and bracken fields where

you’ve been led awry

or lost your plot

and on passed the cusp

where baked ice and the scab of sin

meet flowing promise

and the unpredictable green

creep of confederate jasmine

and here we can

gingerly touch down

debts ignored

dark arable soil to

plant our feet in

and virgin space to scatter

memories and scars

here they won’t

know us yet

we can act on the new earth

and sow fresh character

for our friends

the worms